Green's tone is backed by nearly two decades in law enforcement. When she graduated from the state police academy, she swore an oath to Oregon public safety. She's also received specialized training to enforce city, tribal, state and federal laws. Yet at times, she and other state-certified tribal officers did not have the authority to enforce Oregon laws. Her training simply didn't count when she worked on the Warm Springs reservation, yet suddenly gained credence when she went to work for Jefferson County.

July 28 that changes the definition of "police officer" to hinge on training rather than the personal judgments of local sheriffs. Under the new law, reservation police can have the same authority as other Oregon police.

Supporters of the law say criminals will find fewer loopholes and quicker response times while opponents say it will inspire costly litigation and can't guarantee the protection of basic legal rights.

Green discounts the fears and asserts the law is a huge improvement for all police agencies.

Six of Oregon's nine reservations fall under a 1953 federal law that gives Oregon police authority on tribal lands. The others -- Warm Springs, Umatilla and Burns Paiute -- have their own police.

In 1978, the Supreme Court ruled that tribal officers have no authority to arrest non-tribal members, tattering the net of law enforcement on and near reservations. The three tribes turned to Oregon sheriffs to fill the gap by deputizing tribal police as county officers. Some agreed and some didn't. The continuity of law enforcement depended on the discretion of each new sheriff.

Without deputizing tribal officers with the county, Warm Springs officers were unable to follow suspects off-reservation or arrest non-tribal members on reservation. Jefferson County officers couldn't know if their supervisors would allow Warm Springs officers to respond to calls near the reservation border or back them up on dangerous calls when just one officer was on night duty. Both jurisdictions lost access to the other department's intelligence about criminals hopscotching the boundary with drugs or outstanding warrants.

The invisible border is a very real jurisdictional wall.

Green's house is on the bank of the Deschutes River, which serves as the reservation's eastern border. Just before she crosses the bridge on her way to Madras one morning, she waves at Warm Springs patrol officer Josh Capehart. He turns around in the parking lot of the Deschutes Crossing Restaurant, just within reservation boundaries.

On the opposite bank and in Jefferson County, Green pulls over her white SUV at the Rainbow Market for her daily "check on the locals."

"Morning," she says. "Wake up guys."

She walks around two men sleeping on the ground outside an abandoned gas station and leans closer as she asks, "Are you OK?

"Get up," Green says. "Start moving around. It's cold out here. Get these cans picked up." The men start to move, slowly sitting up as demanded.

The morning welfare checks usually are tame. But overnight patrol officers from Warm Springs and Jefferson County both say the Rainbow Market and nearby boat ramp are crime hot spots tenuously caught in a jurisdictional tangle. Warm Springs is much closer, but Jefferson County, seated in Madras, has authority. Minutes, and confidence that back-up is available, matter on more dangerous calls.

Polk County Sheriff Bob Wolfe and the Oregon State Sheriffs Association argue the new law presents a danger of its own. Wolfe says the law makes tribal police the most powerful law enforcement agency in the state without an equal guarantee of civil protections.

Some provisions of the law aren't strong enough, he says, specifically those requiring tribes to adopt standards similar to state laws on public records access and case file retention as well as have tort claim liability insurance, which would pay victims of police brutality for example.

Because of the tribes' sovereign immunity from states, he fears that a tribe could abuse its police powers and be untouchable by state law.

He also thinks it's illogical that the new law would allow tribal police to act off reservation but not allow state officers onto the three reservations with independent police authority.

"They're a sovereign nation and they are saying they can play by a different set of rules. I personally don't understand that," Wolfe says. He wants all state-certified officers to work under the same rules.

It is also unlikely today's Congress will change federal law and treaties to weaken tribal police powers, he says.

Arnett says the new Oregon law will not create excessive litigation or lead to a loss of civil rights, pointing to successful county level agreements in Oregon and similar statutes in Arizona and New Mexico. He argues the state Legislature spent a lot of time drafting the law and made numerous amendments to protect citizens and officers.

Any tribal police force wanting the expanded police powers must first submit a packet of records to the state to prove it meets the law's requirements, including a guarantee that tribal courts will hear a civil case against its police.

Green and many of her colleagues are glad to know their counterparts in Warm Springs can act without hesitation and that the reservation boundary will no longer be a crack in statewide law enforcement.

"The wall between us will always be there but we want to be able to work together," she said.

Now when Green waves at a Warm Springs officer on her way to Jefferson County each morning, she's not just waving at a friend. She's waving at a state-recognized ally in law enforcement.